The Dress

I spotted my prize casually draped over an all-too-perfect-mannequin in the store window. My heart fluttered and my hands chilled. The dress with the scooped-neck had to be mine. I recognized the relentless desire the second we walked past NY&CO. Like the black and pink striped fabric was tethered to my soul. An all too familiar feeling I get when I see the one.

My husband spotted me staring as though the cutest puppy in the world was inside that store. “Go ahead. I’ll take the girls to the playground.”

Attempting to hide my enthusiasm, I bit my bottom lip and forced myself to walk—not run—through the doors. My mother-in-law trailed behind and browsed the racks, trying to find things I might not pick up on my own.

I refused to grab the dress just yet, refused to try it on. Consolation prizes must be picked out first; otherwise disappointment would be the only thing I left the store with. A pair of khaki slacks, a gray t-shirt, a purple blouse, a shrug—these are a few of the things I loaded my arms with, and then I ventured over to the dress. It looked so perfect on the mannequin, so me. Sifting through the hangars, I spotted one my size and ran back to the dressing room.

The slacks were nice, the shrug, the blouse . . . together they made a great ensemble.

Awesome!

Standing in the cold stall with the white tile floors and white walls, I removed the dress from the hangar then slid the silky material over my head.

It. Was. Horrible. Like I wouldn’t even come out of the dressing room horrible. Ugh. The one turned out to be a nightmare. Just like always. Shaking my head and feeling like I must have the worst body shape out of any woman in the world, I redressed and stomped out toward my mother-in-law.

“It didn’t fit, but the other outfit was nice,” I said, feeling as if someone cut my heartstrings.

She gave me a knowing smile, eyes radiating with kindness, and held up a tan little number with a v-neck and a professional, classy air to it. “What about this one?”

My shoulders slumped. “It’s . . . it’s just not . . . .”

“Just try it on. It would be a really nice dress for any author events you may have.” She pushed the dress into my arms and snagged the ill-fitted one from me.

Her faith in my writing career is unbelievable! “Okay.”

Back in the cold stall, I dropped my purse on the white corner bench and stared at myself in the mirror. This dress had no color, no vibrant hues expressing my happy interior. Actually the fabric matched my current state of mind perfectly. I wiggled out of my jeans and shirt then slipped the dress over my head.

A perfect fit. The tan accentuated the warm, chocolate and caramel hues in my hair. Made my brown eyes stand out against the paleness of my skin. It really made me stand out, rather than hide behind a bunch of bright colors.

But I didn’t have any author-y events. Didn’t have a need for a dress like this. No matter how beautiful it was. I took it off, replaced it on the hangar, adorned myself in my own plain clothes and ventured toward the rack.

“You didn’t like it?” my MIL asked.

“I loved it, but I don’t have author events. And this isn’t a dress I can wear all the time. I have kids to chase. Bending over to pick up a baby is not exactly something I can do while in something this short.” The metal hangar screeched as I returned it to the rack. “And it’s too much money to spend on something I’ll never wear.”

She sighed. “You know it’s not about the money. You will have author events, and this will be the perfect outfit for you. I’ll buy it.”

I stopped walking toward the register with my consolation prizes. “I can’t let you do that.”

“You deserve the dress. You like the dress. Something will come up someday soon where you’ll be able to wear it.”

Smiling and feeling like the luckiest girl alive, I said, “Thank you.”

I walked from the store, bag in hand, hoping she was right about someday soon, and hoping to God it was for author-y stuff.

~ As many of you know, my book was accepted by a publisher. Sunday I had professional head shots taken by my photographer friend, and that little tan number was one of my outfits. Thank God for wonderful mother-in-laws who never lose faith. ~